


Dope

by QuinnCliff



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 'Cause I'm not made of iron, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuinnCliff/pseuds/QuinnCliff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How could he blame John for leaving?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dope

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> This fic was born from a sad night + Lady Gaga.  
> It's not brit-picked or betad, so forgive my mistakes!
> 
> Hope you enjoy it ;*

 

_“My heart would break without you_   
_Might not awake without you_   
_Been hurting low from living high for so long_   
_I'm sorry and I love you_   
_Sing with me, "Bell Bottom Blue"_   
_I'll keep on searching for an answer_   
_‘Cause I need you more than dope”_

Cold was the first thing he felt when he woke up. He had no idea for how long he had been unconscious and he was afraid to know. The empty flat was the second thing he noticed, slowly turning his aching head around he saw the mess he did and the absence of his best friend. How could he blame John for leaving? Everything happened so fast. In one day he had failed to solve a case, in the other cigarettes were on his mouth. The days that past he tried to see in that he had made the mistake, but he just couldn’t. So soon the cigarettes weren’t enough. John was there all the time, he threw the first load on the toilet, and he gave Sherlock a lecture about it. Of course the detective didn’t listen, too drowned in his own mind palace, which in that moment looked more like a chaotic library than anything. He did it again then.

Cocaine wasn’t doing the trick either; he still couldn’t see where he had failed, what had happened. So he ran to his personal favorite. The big H. The first time he used it John screamed at him, even slapped him in the face. The second time he did John turned the flat upside down looking after the rest of the drugs, but Sherlock had hidden in his special secret place so of course John wouldn’t find them. The third time was a charm, John sat on his red armchair and cried. Sherlock didn’t care much in the moment, he was stretched on every corner of his mind palace looking for the bloody answer. And still he couldn’t find it.

The fourth time John wasn’t there. The fifth time neither was Sherlock.

The darkness was the third thing he noticed. He put all his strength to lift his weak body so he could sit down on the cold kitchen’s floor. Empty vials broken on the table and some on the tiles, petri dishes all over the place; blankets, socks, syringes, the skull, everything scattered in the kitchen and in the living room. Sherlock could see some light entered through the windows’ curtains, he closed his eyes and tried to calculate for how long he had been like this, shattered and imprisoned in his own fucked up mind. He looked at his arms, the needles spots were still crimson. Leaned on the sink he could finally stand up with trembling limbs. He rubbed his eyes with his strong hand and let a heavy sigh go. Three days.

He slowly walked to the living room, throwing himself onto the sofa and hiding his face on the Union Jack pillow. For a moment he wondered why Mrs. Hudson hadn’t left him any food or hadn’t tried to wake him up, but then he remembered she was away to some senior’s cruise. Better this way, he thought. He wouldn’t want her to see him like this. Mycroft was probably outside the country as well, otherwise his obnoxious older brother would have driven him to rehab by now. He didn’t even bothered to check his cellphone; Lestrade was probably worried but busy enough to not coming by. Good, he was in no condition to see anyone. He closed his eyes real tight and realized he still didn’t know why he screwed on the bloody case. Maybe he should go for another try, and…

“John”, he whispered to himself.

With his clearer mind he was able to see without the heroin blur the last time John was with him. His cheeks flushed and red from all the tears shed, his hands quivering and his dark blue eyes looked like an ocean after a great storm. Sherlock’s guts had a fight and he puked all the few food he had eaten for the past days. What had he done? He fucked up everything good he had on his life:  John. The ex-soldier was his safety island, his heart, his shock blanket. Why did he throw it all away for some case? No case was more important than John and yet he kept forgetting that every now and then. But this time was too much. John had had enough.

Sherlock noticed a piece of paper on his red armchair, it wasn’t there before. The detective stood up from the sofa and seated on John’s place, which smelled exactly like him. He picked up the note and read it.

**_“Sherlock,_ **

**_I left some food in the fridge, and some clean clothes on your bed. When you come back to the world please send Lestrade and Molly a text message, they’re probably worried. Don’t mind coming after me._ **

**_Take care,_ **

**_P.S.: I wish I had been enough.”_ **

Sherlock led the paper to his lips and he could almost taste John. His breathing became erratic and soon tears were falling through his face. He curled himself on his best friend’s chair, pressing his face on his knees and sobbing uncontrolled. He stayed like that for minutes, or maybe hours. His hand squeezed John’s goodbye words one more time before he let the paper go and walked away from the living room to his bedroom. He got the fresh suit John left for him and headed to the bathroom.

He realized he was starving when he opened the fridge. Hurriedly he prepared a quick meal with the things John put there for him. After that he decided to clean the flat. When he eventually touched some needles or saw some empty syringe, he had to put John’s sad face into his mind again so he could just throw everything away. He could live without drugs. He could not live without John Watson.

The place seemed quite well in his opinion, all vestiges of the whole darkness that floated above the flat was gone. Sherlock then picked up his phone and did as John told him: one message to Molly and one to Lestrade. He would not respect John’s next request though. He needed to find him. It was five pm when he looked at the clock. John was probably still at work, if he ran he would catch the blond before he could cross the clinic’s threshold. So he flew. Thanks to his magic ability of getting a taxi every time he wanted, he was able to arrive at five thirty. Sherlock promptly walked to the wall next to the building’s door, back against it and arms folded.

John took five minutes to leave the place, and as soon as he did he saw Sherlock standing there. The smaller man’s eyes were wide open in surprise and his lips were parted slightly. For a moment Sherlock thought he was going to say something, but he just turned on his heels and walked away. The detective had to give four long steps to reach his arms and grab it. “John, listen.”

“No, Sherlock. YOU listen!” John moved his hand away with a blunt movement, “You are well now, but how am I supposed to know if you will start using again? Maybe not today, but tomorrow or next week! I tried to help you, but you made it impossible. You should look for your brother, he is probably more persuasive than me.” John took a long deep breath, “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m really sorry, but I just can’t keep up like this.”

Sherlock had a huge knot in his throat, before he could find the courage to spit it out, John shook his head and started to go away again. Sherlock rubbed his hair roughly and shouted, “John!” His best friend stopped and looked back, a bit scared with the sudden voice elevation. “You are enough.”

John stepped closer, hands on fists, “Oh am I? It didn’t seem so in the past days, now did it?”

“No, it didn’t. And I’m deeply sorry for that. I destroy everything I touch and it usually doesn’t bother me because I never let myself too attached. But with you it’s different, John”, the doctor sighed but Sherlock continued, “Listen to me, please. Nothing will be able to erase what I did in the past days, but I’ll make sure to build thousands and thousands of great memories between each other so those ones will stay in the basement of our life together.”

John came closer, and Sherlock perceived his body was a bit more relaxed than before. “I want to believe that, Sherlock. I really do, but…”

“Do you love me, John?”

John looked down for a moment, “Of course I do, you git”, his voice was full of emotion.

“So you need to promise something. Whenever I feel like… Like doing that again, you’ll hug me. You’ll hug me tight. Promise me that and I’ll be only yours. You’ll be my only drug.” Sherlock’s voice sounded broken and honest.

John couldn’t hold the heavy tears that flooded his tired face. “You bastard, you utter piece of shit”, the words were bitter but his tone was full of sentiment. “Come here, idiot.”

Sherlock let himself fall into his blogger’s arms. John hugged him so tight it looked like they’d merge into each other. “I love you, John.”

“I know, you nutter.”

Then their lips touched and Sherlock wondered if he knew how this felt it before if he would have ever resort to drugs. The answer was ‘bloody no’.

It felt like heaven.

It felt like clarity.

It felt more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'd really like to read what you thought about the story (;


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